The Second Spark
by Dunno12345
Summary: The Hunger Games are over,but the scars left behind will never heal. Katniss still struggles with the pain it has given both her and Peeta, and she will fight to keep it from her children, whatever the cost. But this story isn't about her. (Continuation of Katniss's daughter. All characters owned by Suzanne Collins, this is just a fanfic. Also found by me on Wattpad)
1. Chapter 1

If I had to choose between benefitting from my father's baking skills or my mother's hunting ones, I think I would have chosen hers.

Baking is fine and all, but I don't have the green thumb with bread that my father does. He can make fancy delicacies from simple ingredients; paint a felling sun dropping into the ocean.

I'm more handy with weapons; I can handle a knife decently enough. I can catch a bird through the eye with an arrow, much like my mother used to. I find my peace in the depths of the woods.

This is how I know that I take more after my mother than that of my father. Because though I shoot like her, she wasn't the one to teach me how. I had to teach myself after she refused to pass her knowledge on to me. I think it hurts her to see her daughter learning how to defend herself; as if now that the Hunger Games are over, there is no need to learn basic survival skills.

But I disagree. The Hunger Games might be over, but they will never be forgotten. One of the most common phrases is that history has a knack for repeating itself.

And I want to be ready if it does.


	2. The Hunt

It crouches low in the trees, perched on a branch that is partially exposed as if it's trying to taunt me. Quietly, I pull out an arrow and nock my bow.

Three breaths pass.

Three heartbeats.

I look at the small creature and pretend I'm looking into its beady black eyes. Then I let my arrow fly.

The hit is snug. I watch as the black bundle falls from the trees to the forest floor, the arrow a clean hit through its gut. Not my best shot, but it's not my fault the tree was in the way. I hook the bird onto a piece of wire tied to my belt, adding to the four others I've shot.

It's not like markets don't exist anymore. Food does not run in such scarcity as it once did, but there's reassurance in the capableness of getting your own food. There's also good prices for fresh kill, especially in birds. They present more of a challenge and butchers will pay for decent sized ones. But I don't do it for the money. We live in Victor's Village, so it isn't like I need it. But just because the Hunger Games are over does not mean the suffering has stopped.

People are still hungry.

I decide that it's time to get back and begin the trek down the base of the forested hill, a fifteen minute hike back to town. I whistle on my way there, of a meadow and wood, swinging the birds at my side. I know I've crossed into the boundaries of the city when I see the potholes from where the electric fence once dug into the ground. Though the barrier is gone, the air still feels charged.

As I get deeper into town, people wave to me. I smile back, stopping to say hello to the old woman I pass most every day. When I reach the market, I pull out my killings and place them on the counter.

Wike, the store owner, enters from the back door and appraises my bounty. "Not bad," he says, checking the weight of each one individually. He is an older man, nearing his sixties, his once black hair now dusted gray. Callused hands sort through the birds as his brown eyes turn up to meet me. "How long did this take you?"

I shrug. "Not long."

"Keep it that way," he says. "Don't want to kill 'em all. I like hearing my birds in the mornin.'"

I smile at that and nod. He removed the birds from the weight machine and pulls open the cash register. "That's about twenty," he says.

I purse my lips. "It was twenty-five last time and I had two more."

He gives me an apologetic look. "Prices are unsteady, Willow. I can only give you what I can afford."

Not much I can do about that, I think. Not wanting to seem greedy, I accept the money and shove it in my bag.

The bell hanging loosely over the front door goes off and I glance behind me. I'm slightly paranoid every time I come in here. Mostly, because I fear someone I know well enough will see me and mention it to my folks. My mom is in ill favor of me practicing hunting, mostly because I believe it brings back bad memories of arrows stuck in people rather than in animals.

But I sigh in relief when it is no one I know. And that's what catches me off guard, because I know everyone here.

I do a double take, absorbing the stranger's unfamiliar face. He has a single bag hung over his arm and a hat drawn so low over his eyes, I can't tell the color of them. Shaggy, brown hair profiles his face, his jawline chiseled and taught. It's then that I realize I'm staring and look away. I glance at Wike, wanting to ask him if he knows the stranger, but his eyes hold the same question. I give him a subtle shrug. It's time to go anyway.

"See you later, Wike," I say as I exit, skirting around the stranger, pretending as if this is nothing out of the ordinary.

We get visitors, yeah, but travel isn't common. It's another reason I'm saving the money I make hunting; because neither me nor my brother wish to stay here for the remainder of our lives and I don't want to have to rely on the money of parents to get me where I wish to go.

I glance one more time at the stranger, his eyes catching my own, only for an instant, before he turns away.

Grey.

His eyes are grey.


End file.
